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The building was perfectly nondescript, brick built and with regimented rows of blankly staring windows. It could have been any one of a hundred apartment blocks in New York City.
Charles only hoped that it had an elevator, as, given the number of the apartment he had been directed to – 703 – he suspected he was going to have to ascend several floors.
He stared thoughtfully up at the building for a few more moments, considering its merits, and then with a mental nudge he prompted a passer-by to open the door for him, allowing him to roll his wheelchair into the foyer.
The first thing he noticed was that the building did indeed have an elevator. The second thing was the sign stuck on said elevator’s doors, proclaiming it to be ‘Out of Order’.
His dismay had barely time to turn into irritation before there was there was a sudden explosion of sulphurous air and red smoke next to him, and he found himself in the presence of Azazel, former henchman to Sebastian Shaw.
Devilish, and yet impassive, features regarded him briefly, and then the other mutant nodded at him – in greeting, warning or instruction Charles wasn’t quite sure – and laid one hand on Charles shoulder and the other on the back of the wheelchair.
The sensation of teleportation was decidedly unpleasant, Charles decided. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of his lungs, at the same time as the very atoms of the air tried to crush his body between them. The only point in its favour was that it lasted less than a second, and then the world was coalescing around him once more, and he could – he would never take it for granted again – breathe.
Charles opened his mouth to say “Thank you”, and perhaps to ask how Azazel bore such a sensation every time. But once again he was pre-empted as Azazel lifted a hand and pointed.
“There.”
Charles looked, and indeed, the brass numbers on the door nearby proclaimed them to be in the right place.
Satisfied that Charles grasped the nuances of the situation, Azazel nodded again and disappeared in another swirl of red smoke. There was a noise as of air rushing into a vacuum, and Charles was alone.
He contemplated the door for a second or two, trying to tell himself that the churning in his stomach was nothing more than a by-product of his abrupt translocation. Then, gathering himself, he wheeled himself forward and reached out to knock.
But before he could do so there was a soft click, as of a lock disengaging, and the door swung open, apparently at the hands of some invisible, unearthly agent.
Curiously enough, however, the event calmed Charles somewhat, and it was with an appearance of almost perfect equanimity that he entered apartment 703.
Magneto was waiting for him inside.
*~*~*~*~*
The door opened directly into the main living area of the apartment, and Magneto was sitting opposite him as he entered, in an armchair located by (perhaps rather arrogantly, Charles thought) the window.
Charles sensed the door shutting again behind him, once again moved by some invisible hand, and he came to halt as he heard the lock click for a second time.
For several moments he and Magneto regarded each other steadily, and then Charles sighed and lifted the bag that was resting in his lap and set it down on the low table between them, observing as he did so, “You might have picked a building with a working elevator.”
“Apologies. It only broke down this morning, and there was no time to get a message to you.”
“I suspect Azazel doesn’t particularly like being your errand boy. Especially when the errand is me.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“No doubt. Are you going to take that off?”
“Take what off?”
Charles’ eyes swept over Magneto’s frame, taking in the tunic, the boots, the ridiculous cape. “I hardly know. But perhaps you might start with the helmet.”
He wasn’t sure – the headgear in question rather obscured Magneto’s face (as well as other things) – but Charles thought he saw eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re surprised by the request,” he said. “And don’t pretend either that you weren’t going to do it anyway.”
That earned him a barked laugh. Then, abruptly, Magneto lifted his hands and slid the helmet off his head.
There was a pause, and then Charles smiled and said, “Hello, Erik.”
He knew he was the only one allowed to call this man by his real name. Not even Raven – or Mystique, he supposed – could claim that privilege any more. He also knew that he was the only one in whose presence Erik would acknowledge who he really was. Who was under that helmet, cape and tunic that turned him into a stranger. Not even to himself would Erik admit that he was anyone other than Magneto now.
Only to Charles.
Not that Charles would betray the trust Erik had in him – the trust that allowed him to remove that ghastly helmet – by intruding where he was not invited. He could feel Erik’s mind now, of course, but he held himself back, restricting his awareness to that he would have of a fire at the other end of a room – a bright, warm glow that diffused itself throughout the space, but which was not close enough to scorch.
Erik would probably claim that ‘scorch’ was the right word, and that nothing about him was warm or glowing. Charles knew better, of course, although there was no denying that, upon closer acquaintance, Erik’s mind could be sharp and somewhat regimented – an unfriendly place for the unwary, or uninvited.
“Hello, Charles.” Erik’s voice was a little hoarse now, as if he was afraid that Charles wouldn’t like what he saw, now he was without part of his armour.
He still held the helmet in his hands, and as he saw Charles’ eyes drop to it, he started slightly, looked down at it likewise, and then turned to a cupboard in the corner of the room, opening its doors with a thought towards the metal handles and setting the helmet on the shelf inside.
It was almost a ritual with them now, ever since the first time, when the thing had instead remained on view, and Charles had been unable to escape the feeling of a third presence in the room, and had eventually begged Erik to hide it.
To his credit, Erik had understood instantly, and hadn’t argued for a moment.
With the helmet out of sight (although not completely out of mind – not yet) Erik also seemed to be taking the opportunity to rid himself of his cape and tunic, leaving them to lie draped over the top of the cupboard, and toe off his tall, black boots, which crumpled and sagged a little pathetically the moment they were no longer performing their purpose.
Thus removed of all his trappings, and attired only in dark trousers and a white undershirt, he looked so much more like the man Charles knew that his breath caught in his throat for a moment.
Erik seemed to divine his train of thought, for he smiled wryly, and then ran a hand through his hair, which had been flattened by the helmet. Charles could not help but notice that some of the strands slipping through those strong fingers now gleamed silver.
Neither of them were getting any younger, it seemed.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Erik asked. “Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?”
“Erik, it’s half-past eleven in the morning,” Charles pointed out.
“Tea it is, then,” Erik said, and made his way over to the small kitchenette.
While he was busying himself with cups and kettles, Charles looked around him a little more, curious about the place Erik had chosen for their meeting.
But he could not discern anything remarkable about the apartment, except for the fact that it was rather small. The room they were currently occupying appeared to be the extent of the daytime living space, with two doors in one wall that presumably led to the bedroom and the bathroom. Charles couldn’t help noticing, however, that there was still plenty of space for him to manoeuvre his wheelchair around, should he need to.
“Here.” Erik set a steaming cup down on the table next to Charles’ bag, within easy reach, and Charles smiled his thanks. The aroma drifting from Erik’s own cup indicated that the other man had chosen coffee rather than tea, a familiar difference between them – Charles well remembered Erik’s rather scathing opinion on the British need for tea, and was touched anew that he always remembered to have a supply in readiness whenever Charles came visiting.
Speaking of…
“Why did you choose this place, this time?” Charles asked, attempting to satisfy his curiosity on this small point.
“Not all of us are determined to be such recluses,” Erik replied, sipping his coffee with a calm that was obviously artificial. Charles didn’t suppose for the moment that Erik had forgotten he could sense the roil of his emotions, but he was content to allow Erik his pretence for a little longer.
“I thought the cabin was pretty, that’s all,” he said, referring to his own choice of location the last time around. “And you can’t deny that the scenery was spectacular.”
“I suppose I can’t, no,” Erik conceded. “Not that I looked at it much.”
Charles chuckled. “Such a waste,” he said. “But its privacy was a useful attribute.”
“No one will disturb us here.”
“I’m sure they won’t. But Erik, New York City? A little dangerous, don’t you think? Someone might have seen you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss, when you’re fully decked out like you were.”
“If you think I would be as careless as that, then you clearly don’t know me very well,” Erik snapped. “And besides, I refuse to let my movements be dictated to me. I will go where I please.”
“Don’t be like that. I just worry, that’s all. The last thing I want is to read in the papers next week is that the fearsome and mighty Magneto has finally been captured by the authorities.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is,” replied Charles quietly.
They eyed each other stubbornly at each other for a moment, and then Erik suddenly discarded his cup and dropped to his knees in front of Charles’ chair, gathering Charles’ free hand in both of his own.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “We’re not here to fight, I know that. I just…”
“Can’t help being yourself,” Charles finished for him. “There’s no need to apologise, Erik. I don’t want you to be anything but.”
“I chose this place for you,” Erik admitted. “It can’t have been easy for you to get to that cabin, and I wanted things to be…easy for you, for once.”
The metal of Charles’ wheelchair quivered slightly and then stilled. Carefully, Charles set his own cup down, and then rested his other hand on top of Erik’s clasped ones.
“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate the thought. Although you know I don’t care where we meet, so long as I can see you.”
“I know. And my plan didn’t even work, thanks to that wretched elevator. And now Azazel knows of our assignation.”
“I trust he doesn’t know its true nature, however?”
“No. I led him to believe that we were meeting on business. Something about mutant rights. I don’t think any of my companions are oblivious to our continuing connection, in any case.”
“I doubt you could hide it from Raven.”
“I could not,” said Erik wryly. “She sends her love, by the way.”
“And you must take mine back,” Charles said, speaking with difficulty around the lump in his throat. He coughed a little, and then forced a note of lightness into his voice. “Now, are you going to stay down there all day? Not that I don’t like seeing you on your knees, but perhaps that’s for later? You must be uncomfortable.”
Erik stared at him for a moment, and then chuckled, sounding surprisingly bright and carefree all of a sudden. “I always forget how incorrigible you are, Charles,” he said, and then, before Charles could form a response, half rose and leaned over to kiss him.
It was a more impulsive action than Charles was used to from Erik, who always considered everything thoroughly before showing his hand, but he only allowed it to startle him for a moment before he was kissing Erik back, the angle making things a little awkward, but no less sweet for all that.
Aren’t you going to come in?
The mental query was tentative – not through fear, Charles could tell, but almost as if Erik was a little rusty in the technique.
Or as if he thought his request wouldn’t be welcome.
Never unless I’m invited, Charles responded gently, a reminder that his promises of so long ago still stood.
You may consider this an invite.
With a silent sigh, Charles allowed himself to draw closer to the glow of Erik’s mind, hovering on the periphery to feel the sweet prickle of anticipation for a moment longer before sliding inside.
Erik’s mind was a perfect representation of the man – ruthlessly controlled and highly organised. Although (and Charles suspected that Erik wasn’t even aware of this himself) that didn’t mean the warmth and attraction of it was lacking – as if somewhere in Erik’s psyche the menorah he’d lit with his mother still burned brightly and with love.
It had been so long since he’d been allowed this pleasure and privilege that Charles could have communed (a word that he had no doubt would make Erik roll his eyes in exasperation, even though it was the most appropriate one under the circumstances) with Erik’s mind all day.
However, it wasn’t just Erik’s mind he’d missed, but Erik himself. So as the kiss ended and they drew apart, Charles also reined in his telepathy, reducing Erik’s mental presence to that comforting glow again, only this time he knew he could reach out and touch whenever he liked.
“I have missed you too,” Erik murmured, and Charles realised that he’d inadvertently (or was it?) let his feelings bleed across their renewed link.
Charles smiled gently. Their situation was not ideal – far from it – but it was still more than he’d ever hoped for, in those weeks and months after Cuba. He would take what he could get, and not regret that it wasn’t more.
“How are the others?” Erik asked, as he finally straightened up properly, and made his way back to his chair. As he did so, Charles felt his wheelchair come alive under him, and roll forward, the other man clearly loath to give up the closeness they’d re-established.
The question was not the change of subject it appeared to be, Charles knew. The last time they’d seen each other was in combat nearly seven months previously – the X-Men and the Brotherhood facing off over a government laboratory conducting tests on mutants. Neither group was there to fight the other, but as always their methods had differed. Charles had wished only to rescue the suffering mutants. Erik had wanted to raze the laboratory to the ground and, as he put it, ‘make every scientist in the place pay for what they’d done’.
In the end, neither of them had got their wish. The laboratory turned out to be much more heavily guarded than either group’s intelligence had indicated, and although the X-Men had managed to extract a few of the test subjects, many more had remained within. And even Erik, his Brotherhood still smaller than he’d liked, had deemed retreat to be the most sensible course of action in the face of such staunch opposition.
“They’re well,” Charles replied. “Sean was grounded for a couple of months while his arm healed, but for the most part we were lucky.”
I’m sorry.
It wasn’t your fault.
“You know I couldn’t tell you what we were planning, when we saw each other…before.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t have expected you to.”
It had been less than three weeks before the incident at the laboratory that Charles and Erik had met like this, in that secluded cabin far away from everyone, and neither of them had breathed a word of their future plans. That wasn’t the purpose of these assignations, and they both knew it. At these times they were Charles and Erik, not Professor X and Magneto.
Still, Charles knew that Erik couldn’t help his guilt. He worried for Charles, and in his mind the clash between the X-Men and the Brotherhood, combined with the government’s resistance, would have put Charles in more danger than Erik, given the choice, would ever allow.
Secretly, Charles rejoiced in the knowledge that Erik still cared for him enough to want to ensure his safety, even when they met in conflict.
Even when they were on opposite sides.
“I trust none of your compatriots came to any serious harm either?” Charles asked, and he knew Erik would feel the genuine concern in his mind.
“Only a few bumps and bruises,” Erik replied. “Oh, and I think Emma might have stained her dress. She was in a sulk for days.”
He grinned, and Charles knew the shadow had passed, if only for the moment.
“I’ll have to see if I can remember my old cook’s sure-fire way of removing stains. It was something about bicarbonate of soda, I think…”
“I’m sure Emma will be very grateful,” Erik said dryly. “But in the meantime,” he nodded towards Charles cup of now cooling tea, “more tea, vicar?”
Charles grinned back. “Don’t mind if I do. And then, how about a game of chess before lunch? I assume you brought a set? I still haven’t persuaded any of my lot to take it up, and I can feel my skills atrophying with every passing day.”
Erik made a sceptical noise, and muttered something that sounded like “I’ll believe it when I see it,” but he nonetheless fetched a chess set down off a shelf and set it up between them.
*~*~*~*~*
The rest of the day passed in chess and conversation, as they reacquainted themselves all over again. Erik seemed unable to stop touching Charles, either physically – he let his hand brush against Charles’ shoulder or arm every time he passed by on the way to the kitchenette for more tea, food or, later, the something stronger he’d offered previously – or with his powers – throughout the day, Charles was aware of the foreign influence exerted on his wheelchair, the fastenings on his clothes, and even, in one memorable instance, the bishop that Charles playfully flung at Erik when it became apparent that Charles’ chess skills were in fact just as rusty as he’d indicated.
The chessman came to halt three inches in front of Erik’s nose, betraying the metal core underneath the wooden veneer, and then dropped neatly into Erik’s hand as Erik laughed at him.
And, in truth, Charles was hardly less tactile – with his telepathy, at any rate. He was not intrusive, but Erik’s mind was a lure that he was not completely able to resist now that he had been invited in. So he indulged himself a little, knowing that Erik was aware of his presence, and revelling in the fact that the other man seemed, not only to not mind it, but to positively welcome it.
It wasn’t that late when Charles finished his third whiskey of the evening and set his glass down with a sigh, but darkness had fallen over the city outside, the blanket of night sealing them inside the apartment, which now looked cosy rather than small in the soft glow of the few lamps they’d switched on.
Charles? Are you all right? Erik sounded concerned, and Charles could sense the direct, searching nature of his gaze without even having to look at him.
I’m fine.
But you are tired?
“A little,” Charles admitted out loud. “But not so much so that I don’t want you to come over here and kiss me again.” He sought out Erik’s eyes with his own, and let Erik see how much he meant the invitation.
Of course I will, Charles.
I have missed you, my friend, Charles offered a moment or two later, articulating what they’d both been feeling all day, and what would always be true between them. And then, Will you take me to bed?
*~*~*~*~*
Charles knew that the other side of the bed was empty before he even opened his eyes. He could sense that Erik was still in the apartment, his mind still very much a presence to Charles’ ability, but he could also sense that Erik was no longer right beside him.
Thus it wasn’t a surprise when he did open his eyes and discover that he was alone in the bedroom, the dim, grey light filtering through a gap in the curtains betraying that it was still early – much earlier, in fact, than Charles usually liked to be awake.
Erik? he queried tentatively.
Just a moment.
Now that he listened, Charles could hear Erik moving around in the other part of the apartment. He pushed himself upright, and was leaning against the headboard before footsteps drawing closer heralded Erik’s reappearance before he made it.
Charles attempted to keep his dismay off his face, and mostly succeeded. However, Erik knew him too well to be fooled, and he smiled ruefully.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Something’s come up.”
The cape and helmet were nowhere to be seen, but the magenta tunic and black boots were enough to proclaim that that ‘something’ was not merely a problem with breakfast, or indeed, any kind of innuendo.
“I thought we would spend today together as well,” Charles said, aware that he sounded like the kind of petulant teenager many of his X-Men had been not so long ago.
“So did I,” replied Erik. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the mattress next to Charles. There was the briefest of hesitations, and then Erik took one of Charles’ hands in his own. “Believe me, I had planned on it. But this can’t wait. Emma wouldn’t have contacted me unless it was important.”
“Emma is here?” Charles asked sharply. He quickly extended his awareness, his telepathy responding quickly despite his early morning sluggishness. Why hadn’t he sensed her before this?
“No,” Erik assured him hastily. “I left strict instructions that no one was to come here except Azazel. But she is nearby, in the city – Azazel brought her close enough so she could communicate with me.”
“How did she know you wouldn’t have the helmet on?”
Erik gave him a wry look. “She did know I was meeting you, and she’s not stupid,” he said.
“Ah.”
“I am sorry,” Erik repeated. “You know I would stay if I could.”
“I know.” Still, Charles couldn’t help the regretful sigh, and he felt Erik squeeze his fingers in his own.
“And I can’t tell you why I’m leaving either, before you ask.”
“I know that too.” Unspoken was the fact that right now Charles could simply reach into Erik’s head and pluck out the knowledge, if he wanted to. And if it had been another time, in another situation, Charles might even have done it. And Erik might even have understood.
But not now. Never at a time like this.
Erik leaned in and kissed him softly, and Charles resisted the selfish urge to use any or all of his many talents to keep Erik here with him, if only for a little longer.
Instead, he let Erik draw away when the kiss ended, and watched as he stood up reluctantly, dropping Charles’ hand at the last minute as if he couldn’t bear to let go.
“I’ll be in touch,” Erik said quietly.
“You know where to contact me.”
Erik chuckled. “I suppose I do.” Then his mirth died. “I’ll see you soon, Charles.”
“See you soon,” Charles echoed. Then, “Erik? Might I ask a small favour?”
Erik looked back from the doorway. “Anything.”
“Leave the helmet off until you’ve left? So I can hold on to you a little while longer?”
It was an unbearably sappy request, but Erik only smiled. Of course, Charles.
And then, with a nod, he was gone.
Charles followed the glow of his mind out of the apartment and downwards until it reached street level. He said nothing, but he knew that Erik would be able to feel him still, right up until the moment that, with a sensation very like the popping of a soap bubble, the connection severed. Charles wasn’t sure, but he thought that perhaps Erik had transported away, rather than put the helmet back on – that was what it felt like, anyway. And transportation made sense – it wasn’t like Erik could have left the building normally, conspicuously attired as he was.
After a momentary pause, which was all Charles allowed himself to get used to the idea of missing Erik anew, he threw back the covers and shuffled himself around until his legs were hanging over the side of the bed. To his relief, Erik hadn’t asked if Charles would be all right before leaving. They both knew Charles would be – after all, he coped perfectly well every day of his life, determined not to relinquish his independence to well meaning but condescending helpers.
Nonetheless, Charles noticed that his wheelchair now stood right by the side of the bed (which was not where it had ended up last night after Erik had lifted him from it – an indulgence that Charles had granted willingly enough), close enough that he could lever himself into it without difficulty. Then he set about his normal morning routine.
However, it wasn’t until he was dressed and back in the living room, checking through his bag, that the problem occurred to him.
“Damn, the elevator,” he said out loud to the empty apartment. It was too much to hope that it had somehow been fixed overnight, and he didn’t really expect Azazel to suddenly appear, so how the hell was he going to get downstairs?
Erik! he retorted in exasperation, not really expecting an answer.
And he didn’t get one – not exactly. All he received was a faint sensation of amusement, followed by the entirely un-warned for levitation of his chair a few inches into the air.
Charles exclaimed something he was rather glad no one was around to hear, and clutched at the armrests. Erik lifting his chair this way was nothing new, but it was a little startling when so unexpected.
He relaxed slightly as the chair floated towards the door, glad he already had his bag on his lap, and then frowned slightly as he realised he was steering a perfect path across the apartment, the door opening smoothly as he approached.
Erik, where are you? he asked. How are you doing this?
But again, he received nothing in return but that amusement, and perhaps a slight sense of ‘Don’t distract me’, and as the chair made its way down the hallway and then started to float perfectly down the stairs, Charles restrained himself from asking further questions. Erik had obviously been working on his range and fine control – and, Charles presumed, his ability to differentiate between different metal items – impressively so, if this little display was anything to go by.
It was still early, which Charles was suddenly rather glad about, as it meant no one else was around. Not that he couldn’t easily have ‘persuaded’ any spectators that they hadn’t seen a floating wheelchair, but he greatly preferred that there were no spectators to start with.
Therefore he was relieved that, once back in the foyer – where the elevator was indeed still proclaiming itself to be out of order – his chair settled itself on the ground again. There were more people out on the street, and more minds meant more effort.
Erik wasn’t quite done, however. As Charles watched, the building’s front door swung open, and he could almost imagine Erik standing there, holding it for him as he gestured Charles through it with a flourish.
Thank you, Erik.
This time he received no answer at all, not even the amusement, but Charles nonetheless smiled as he wheeled himself out into the morning light.